


Ghastly

by skinsuit



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Creepy pedophila, Curry, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinsuit/pseuds/skinsuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Withnail lounges in bed in a half drunken stupor trying to wank. But his mind keeps going back to the first time he got utterly drunk and first time he had sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghastly

Ghastly.

Was it a dream memory or dream or nightmare Withnail was having now. He was thirteen and reeling drunk for the first time, so utterly pissed he was unable to move or even speak. Mr. Mitchell was carrying him to the bed. Mr. Mitchell’s bed. He remembered that through the haze he was so embarrassed that he’d gotten so out of control on so little brandy. He’d been sick on Mr. Mitchell’s carpet. Now he felt so hot, clammy sweat on his brow and his head was swimming, everything blurring around him.

“I’m sorry sir,” he muttered. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright. You’re just not used to brandy.” Mr. Mitchell had said kindly. “You were brillaint my boy, we all loved you in the play. Besides this your first time having a full glass.”

 

“It was good, thank you,” He said, everything was still swimming and Mr. Mitchell was double and blurred.

Mr. Mitchell had just given him the brandy to congratulate him on doing so well as the Dane in Hamlet in the school play. And now he’d gone and made ass of himself. In his memory he recalled thinking that it was so kind of Mr. Mitchell to let him stay here. He was small enough then to be carried, still a runt. That summer he’d have a growth spurt and shoot up like a weed, but for now he was spindly thing, all elbows and knees and fragile points.

Mr. Mitchell laid him in the bed. Withnail opened his mouth to apologize. Mr. Mitchell did a strange thing, he stroked his cheek. Then he bent low and kissed him on lips.

“Oh, my boy. You are so lovely,” he said. “I couldn’t resist any longer.”

Withnail didn’t know how to feel, the brandy was making things, blurry still, it feel good but it was awful at the same time. The way Mr. Mitchell was touching him felt nice but he didn’t know what to do... His limbs were so heavy from the drink, and he didn’t think he could move or speak, even though he might want to. Mr. Mitchell kept kissing him and had undone his shirt and was touching his chest, running a finger up and down the length of it. It felt so... he had no idea how it happened. So indescribable he gave a groan-- the only sound he could make. He was scared, and so drunk. His head was spinning. The sensations felt good, but Mr. Mitchell wasn’t the one who should be doing this. A few hours ago Mr. Mitchell had been like a favorite uncle. Now Mr. Mitchell was touching the front of his trousers stroking... him and reaching for the zip.

And in 1969 the man Withnail rose from his dirty sheets with a shudder. He didn’t like getting out of bed. He had resolved that today would be spent, drinking in bed, naked and possibly scratching any itch that might show up. If there were too many he would begin to worry that Danny might have brought in fleas. But that damned memory had come back like sick after a night on the town. He had been trying for something good, something sexy, so he could have a lazy morning wank. He hardly did these days, it wasn’t like his penis responded much to anything usually. And when he felt horny, he would be too drunk, that he even felt anything sexual. And then of all the sex he’d had that first time had shown up. He wasn’t sure after all these years if it had to been right or wrong. And looking back on the times he’d had sex he’d been drunk or high, _depressing fucking thought._

He took a pull on the nearest open bottle, and reflected that lately there hadn’t been much sex at all. Lying back, he was pretty sure his flatmate Marwood would probably part those pretty legs given enough drink, touched him in the right place. Easy as falling off a log. Where was Marwood anyway? He’d had an bloody audition earlier. Withnail wondered, _why can’t get I an audition_? It was because Marwood had that soft lovely brown hair, those big pretty eyes, that mouth, and that broad hairless chest... not to mention when Withnail had walked in on him in the bath... Speaking of which, there was a stirring. _Well look what woke up._ He looked down at his waist, and yes there it was, an actual erection. He reached down and begin to tug at it. At first it felt good, as he thought of all things he’d do to Marwood and how hard he’d fuck that tight little arse of his. However as the minutes began to go on and on. It was getting tedious and sore, the hard-on wasn’t going away. Oh, he wanted to come, spend, blast his mind away with an orgasm-- even a small weak one would do. He kept rubbing, hard it was hurting. In the corner of eye he spotted a bottle he knew was empty, and an idea came to him. The glass was sturdy enough. Why not? Something up his arse might just be the thing needed. He grabbed at bottle with one hand, got it and...

He was thirteen again and naked, Mr. Mitchell had stroked and sucked his young body into excitment. Mr. Mitchell was over him, between his legs, holding his legs. Mr. Mitchell’s penis looked so big, red, purple and filled with veins.

“This will hurt at first, but you will come enjoy it.” And it DID hurt, it hurt like damn it, even the booze didn’t numb him enough.... He felt himself began to cry like a girl. Mr. Mitchell kissed him and was still inside, still gently thrusting and he was right and it didn’t feel so bad.

“FUCK!” And the bottle went across the room and smashed against the wall. Well, so much that erection was gone now, limp as a dead fish. Speaking of which, hadn’t he told Marwood to get fish and chips, and not curry? He hated curry. He found a bottle of vodka with a good quarter of it left, and swallowed it a fluid motion. He felt comforted, warm, happy, for want of a better word. The world was fading away now. Perfect, he hated the fucking world. The last thing he did was draw the sheet over himself.

It was dark when there was knocking at his bedroom door. Bloody Marwood.

“Withnail, I’ve got food,” Marwood said.

“Go away,” He growled back.

“And some other things,” said Marwood. “A bottle of Teacher’s scotch for one.”

Withnail got out of bed, fighting the hang over, and pulled on his normal outfit, slicking down his hair. Marwood was on the couch. He had gotten a bloody curry: naan, rice, and some other foreign spicy muck that made Withnail’s mouth burn and digestive tract kick him.The naan wasn’t so bad, though. Withnail grabbed it and the bottle of Teacher’s.

“You fucker, I told you not to get curry,” he said.

“It was on the way,” said Marwood. “Besides, you’re eating it.”

He’d eaten two slices of naan and slugged back a fifth of the bottle. Bloody awful scotch. But he was getting legless and that was the whole purpose of it, right?

“It’s only fit for wops and darkies. I have no idea why you get it.” Withnail said. In truth, he nothing against Indians, just their food.

“It’s cheap and I like it,” Marwood said. “Besides I had enough left to get a bag of weed.”

Withnail smiled like weasel. “Really. From Danny, yes?”

“Yes,” Marwood said.

“The food will be better after a smoke,” Withnail said. “How was your audition.”

“They seemed to like me,” Marwood said. “But I don’t know if that means anything. How was your day?”

“Utterly ghastly,” said Withnail.


End file.
